Gift Set
by Starwatcher2018
Summary: Vignettes of characters in my existing Gift series that are not included in those works.
1. The Gift from a Beggar

Adele has not expected her grief to be deep. Gustave's affection had been comforting and their relationship was as much borne more out of convenience and physical needs than anything remotely romantic.

Had she loved him? Yes. But not as she had loved Louis – through all the storms of their courtship, marriage, miscarriages and the ultimate bonding as parents to Meg. So many tries, so many losses – then the blessing of a daughter. When he died, she believed her life would now be relegated to raising her daughter – finding whatever work she could to support both of them. In that, she did well.

When Gustave appeared on the doorstep with his own daughter, Christine, she felt compelled to help them. After all, he and Louis had bonded over their music, the girls were close in age and, quite frankly, she was lonely for male companionship.

The simplicity of a man's needs calmed her soul, giving her a respite from the complexity of her daughter's adolescence. The seeming endless rebellion over every single element of her life from a lock of hair that would not stay pinned, to her inability to perform a jete quite as she wished. There was nothing simple about Meg – the world was indeed her stage.

Christine was quite the opposite – calm and gentle. Quiet – almost excessively so, but a blessing for all that. She adored her father, but, even at her young age seemed to understand and, actually approve of his relationship with Adele.

Gustave was kind and generous of spirit. Their lovemaking while not full of passion, was satisfying. Each recalled their spouses in brief snippets of conversation. Meals were not an issue – both he and Christine had learned over the years during their travels that most food was tolerable and both were pleased their combined incomes, the larder was usually full and no one was in want of a treat from time to time.

His music soothed all their souls – some of their best evenings were spent with Gustave playing, Christine singing in her lovely, but quiet soprano, and Meg dancing. For Adele, this was better than any performance at the Palais Garnier.

His illness took them all by surprise – when the fever broke, they were all relieved, but he never quite recovered. The months it took him to pass were difficult for all of them. There were times when Adele was concerned for Christine's own life, her fear of loss and feelings of hopelessness leading to days when she refused to leave Gustave's side, shunning both food and sleep.

"You must rest yourself, child," she would say. "You will do him no good if you become ill yourself."

Her own health concerned her as well – working every day, then coming home to treat Gustave. Neither of the girls was comfortable with the cool baths he required to keep him comfortable. The remembrance of Louis' illness was always with her – reminding her to get her own rest, to make certain she ate and kept her own hygiene practices.

His death was a quiet thing- for Gustave, the man, was a quiet person.

Christine was inconsolable and Adele found that Meg's fierce personality was the perfect antidote for the older girl's depression – Meg would simply not allow Christine to wallow. She could grieve – cry, beat her pillow, walk for hours – but she could not allow her own spirit to die, not if Meg had anything to do with it.

And so, Adele was left to deal with Gustave's death on her own. Despite the relief from her nursing responsibilities –she found she could not rest. If anything, she was more fatigued than when tending to his needs. The quiet was the worst part – the nights of waking to listen, going back to sleep when his chest moved and a ragged breath escaped his parched lips. Now she woke without any reward.

There were no tears – she felt she had cried all her tears when Louis died.

No one thought it odd. She was Madame Giry, after all. Madame Giry did not cry.

It would be a beggar on the street – a stranger to her – who would push her to the edge of her resignation and calm.

The act of tossing a coin in his basket had him pull a harmonica from his pocket to play _Frere Jacques._

The simple man, with his simple instrument playing the simple tune broke her.

Tossing several more francs into his basket, she sat on the sidewalk next to him and cried as he continued to play.


	2. The Gift of a Home

Christine settled into the corner of forest green settee, pushing herself as deeply into the rough pile as she could. Still unsure of her place in the household that now consisted of her father, the formidable, yet kind, Adele Giry and her daughter, Meg.

Meg of golden tresses and sky blue eyes – always dancing and moving. Meg of outspoken speech and opinion – never failing to comment on whatever was going on in the troupe or her desire to be prima ballerina – taking over Sorelli's role, who was becoming too old.

Meg the official daughter.

Pappa was so grateful when Madame offered them a place to stay when they arrived in Paris. Having been offered a permanent job at a café gave them a level of security they had not experienced since leaving Sweden – how long ago was it? Twelve, fourteen years. She lost count – the days, years and countries losing definition – in some ways so much alike, in others so different.

It was not long before the sleeping situations changed. Pappa moved into Madame's room, while Meg returned to the room that was once hers alone, but would now be shared with Christine. Despite an initial awkwardness over their respective parent's new relationship, neither begrudged them their happiness. It was their own situation that was the challenge.

Had anyone bothered to ask her – Christine would said she much preferred the gypsy life she shared with her father. Pappa was certain in his belief that Christine would fare better in this normal setting, he failed to see her withdrawal into herself. Housing was costly and the arrangement was manna from heaven in his eyes. Comfortable home and ready-made friends for both of them.

"I do not want to wear braids," Meg said, stamping her small foot on the floor, as Adele attempted to contain the golden locks, enabling her to form a crown on the girl's head, appropriate to the dance she would be performing that night for the managers.

Christine recalled how her own mother loved to spend what she recalled as hours, brushing her unruly chestnut curls until Pappa said it shone like satin. Once she had his blessing, Mamma would then pick through her sewing basket to find the prettiest ribbon to tie her hair back, finishing with a big bow at the top of her head.

Just as she did not begrudge her father the warmth of Madame's bed, neither did she begrudge Meg the affection of her mother. Meg, for all her bratty behavior, was actually becoming a good friend – always able to make Christine laugh – doubting she could even be so bold as to speak to anyone in the way Meg spoke to Madame.

Yet, this was not her family – this was not her home. Too many years unconnected – without her mother. Too many years being her own mother. The urge to escape this domesticity grew stonger in her daily.

She longed for the day she could escape.


	3. The Gift of Hair

Hair

Christine pulls back the white voile curtains to open the windows overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, her arms spread to welcome the fresh air, cooling her flushed skin. "Such a lovely evening."

"We should be grateful for the recent rain and the breeze – the city smells being absent for the moment," Erik comments, putting aside his book, allowing his head to rest on the back of the coral bergere chair – one of two that defines the reading area of the sitting room.

Walking up behind him, her small fingers gently rubbing his shoulders, she says, "You should really remove your wig when we are at home like this, your scalp needs to breath."

Taking one of her delicate hands to kiss it, Erik responds, his voice tight, "My scalp is just fine."

"Have you been using the oils I purchased – for your shampoo?" she asks. "The apothecary recommended them highly for cradle cap."

"Do I look to be of an age to sleep in a cradle?"

"You slept in a coffin – except for the size and true function, they are quite similar," she mutters, a soft giggle disguising the frustration apparent in the straight line her full lips have become. She bends over to kiss him on the top of his head. "There are moments, like this, when you are more a child than adult."

"And there are moments, like this, when you are more nagging parent than loving wife." Grumbling, he removes the wig, flourishing it above his head, "Here. My head is now breathing in the glorious Parisian air. Are you quite satisfied?"

Taking the finely made hairpiece being waved in her face, she sniffs it, wrinkling her nose. "This needs to be shampooed as well."

"Does it now?"

"Yes – for all your fastidious nature, you really do ignore the top of your head."

"My goal in life has been to that end – and I succeeded. Now, however, I have you to regularly remind me of that offensive part of my anatomy."

Setting the wig on the carved mahogany end table next to his chair, she says, "Your hair is getting thicker, you know."

"My dear, I perform all the exercises you request – I am pleased that some result is visible."

"But?"

"But, no matter the effort I may give, it seems a wasted exercise."

She massages his scalps, carding her fingers through the thin gray strands. "So soft."

"I must admit, the touch of your hands is quite pleasant."

"Mm hmm."

"Perhaps I complain too much."

"Perhaps."

"This is quite nice."

"Mm hmm."

"I am sorry."

"I know."


	4. The Gift of a Broken Curse

The Gift of a Broken Curse

Erik dimmed the porcelain lamps that sat on end tables framing the scarlet settee in the sitting room. His and Christine's wine classes sat on the coffee table, the Merlot hardly tasted. Her posture straight, hands folding primly in her lap as he sat down next to her, still as a statue in her blue silk dress. Waiting.

Lifting her chin with a fingertip, he tilted her head towards him. The blood pounded in his ears and he was so anxious – terrified to be honest, but, she insisted. He held his breath, licking his misshapen lips before brushing them against her sweet mouth – pink and full – a rosebud. Had she even felt his touch?

"Was that all right?" Erik asked, pulling away from her, holding his hand over his mouth. Oh, why had she insisted he initiate the kiss. Until now, he would wait for her to lean into him. Press her mouth against his. Never daring to intrude upon her, unsure always if she would accept him.

Looking at her face, that beautiful, innocent face –so pure and trusting – proved to be too much for him – he had to turn away – desperately wanted to run away. _This damnable face – this distorted mouth. Why should I think she would want this mass of flesh to touch her – kiss her. _"You did not die."

"Die – why on earth would I die from kissing you? We have kissed before – many times."

"Yes, you did kiss me first – twice. You kissed me twice and did not die. But, _I did not kiss you_. Well, perhaps, I did kiss you back a little. I wanted to kiss and hold you – to never have it end, but I was afraid."

"Of what? A kiss does not cause one to die," Christine says, pressing herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him. "Where did you learn such foolishness?"

"My mother."

_Do not touch me. Do not kiss me. Do you wish me dead?_

"Is that why you always wait for me?"

"Certainly no one would die if you kissed them – you are an angel. I am cursed. I feared that it was _my _kiss, _my_ desire that would crush you."

"And now that you have kissed me – all on your own – can you see that you are not cursed? I am very much alive and very much in need of more kisses."

"Mine?"

"Of course, yours. What is that you call Nadir?"

"Great booby?"

"Yes. I want your kisses, you great booby."

"I shall try to do better."

"You have done better," she laughs. "Oh, Erik, what am I to do with you?"

"Kiss me?"


	5. The Gift of Old Habits Revisited

"There is something to be said for being a night person," Erik says. "Of course, for me, these past several years have consisted primarily of night – so I am not entirely certain if I am a night person or simply accustomed to living in darkness."

"Whatever are you muttering about?" Christine grumbles as she throws off the duvet, grabbing her pale lavender dressing gown and sliding her feet into the bed slippers trimmed with feathers sitting next to the bed as she rises from the four-poster.

"Living above ground creates routines – one wakes to the sun shining through the windows. One become sleepy when the light fades and darkness sets in," he continues, following her lead, he dons his scarlet robe and brocade house shoes. "Sleep was something I seldom desired, nor, in fact, felt I needed."

Small fists rubs the aquamarine eyes, still cloudy from her broken rest. A yawn so wide, he almost expects to hear her wonderful E6, but the only sound that comes out is a low moan reminiscent of a dog howling – more of a G3. Nevertheless, to him, she is pitch perfect. His Christine.

Following her, as she stumbles from the bedroom into the hallway, he goes on to say, "Nevertheless, much as not sleeping became a habit – I find that now I yearn for those hours beneath the sheets and blankets, with you nestled close beside me to be possibly the most glorious time of the day."

"Do you think that sleeping in a coffin may have dampened your desire for rest?" she asks, turning to look at him, rolling her eyes. "The concern might have been that the lid would slam shut and you would never wake again."

"The thought occurred to me – but the coffin was safe and snug – quite comforting, actually," he says. "That said, I find your presence to be ever so more appealing."

"Thank you, for that," she retorts. "I shall write in my memoir that my husband much preferred taking his nightly rest with me in a bed, as opposed to sleeping alone in his coffin. Better yet, you could write an opera about it."

"Now you are just being testy, my dear. I was merely teasing you," he chuckles.

"Erik, it is one o'clock in the morning, this is not the time for teasing."

"What better time? For all our desire to set normal sleeping patterns for ourselves, our daughter has determined her desire for nourishment supersedes our wishes. Do you think she takes after me in that?

"If you mean, being a tad overbearing and bossy – yes," she says. "As for the other, you never ate either. No food, no sleep. God only knows how you survived."

"I suppose I lived on hope – waiting for an Angel to rescue me from the hell I lived in."

They reach the door to the nursery, Erik stands and waits as Christine lifts Belle from the white bassinet, wrapping her in a pink blanket.

Safe in her mama's arms, Belle's hiccoughs and the flow of tears stops. Christine murmurs into the small shell of an ear, smoothing the damp wisps of hair as yet undefined as to color or curl.

Taking a seat on the small settee, Christine undoes the top of her chemise and offers her breast to the little girl. "You know you do not have to get up with me when she fusses."

"Ah, but I do. All those years of practice would go to waste were I to loll about in bed, while you tended to our daughter."

Nodding to the empty space next to her, she says, "Come sit by us."

Joining them, he puts an arm around her shoulders. They smile down at the nursing infant.

"If I were to pray for anything, it would be she take after you."

"She will be ours – and she will be hers."

"That does make sense – you are a wise woman."

"And you are a silly, wonderful man."


	6. Hum

Hum

A/N - Drabble based on a prompt for the word "hum."

* * *

"_Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmm, hmm. Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmm, hmm. Hmmmm, hmmmm, hm, hm, hm. Hmmmm, hmmmm, hmm, hmm."_

"Wagner is it? I should have thought you would prefer the Mendelssohn," Erik says, coming up behind his soon-to-be bride. Wrapping his arms around Christine's waist, he deposits a number of soft kisses against her neck.

Turning to face him, she drapes her arms over his shoulders. Standing on tiptoe, she offers her lips for a proper kiss.

Eyelids lowered, aquamarine eyes sparkling, she gives him another gentle peck, before twirling away, silk skirts swishing. Laughing gaily, she asks. "Cannot I have both?"


	7. Stars

Stars

A/N - Drabble based on a prompt for the word "stars."

* * *

"That star is so bright, Pappa," Gustave asks.

"Which one?"

"Next to the Moon – see how it shines?"

Erik follows the sight line the boy creates with his finger. "Ah, Venus – called the Evening Star, but is really a planet – the planet of women…of love."

"What of the other –next to it – the pink one?"

"Mars – another planet. A masculine planet, a fighter."

"Does it mean anything – the three together?"

"Indeed – this does not happen often."

"Tell me."

"It is like our little family – Venus your Maman. I would be Mars. You. You are the Moon, our heart and emotion."


	8. Scorn

A/N - Drabble for word prompt - "scorn"

* * *

Scorn

"I would have given you my heart – my very soul, but you were blind to me. Why?" Meg cries. Her life is no longer satisfied to being contained in the cheap, music hall melodies Erik had been composing for her. "I could have been Prima Ballerina, but followed you instead."

"You were like a daughter to me, Little Giry."

"I am a woman."

"And I am a man – a man whose soul belongs to another woman. I am sorry."

"Christine."

"Always Christine."

"Damn you."

"Alas, the world has already damned me."

"I love you."

"But, I do not love you."


	9. Praise

A/N - Drabble prompt

* * *

Praise

Eyes – blue as the aquamarine hanging from Christine's neck – focus on his – pale amber with hints of gold, fearsome when challenged, but now warm, comforting. His soothing voice coaxes. "You can do it."

"No demanding _sing for me?_"

"When did I ever say such a thing?"

"When did you not?" She laughs. "You sought to encourage me with those words."

"I was correct," he harrumphs.

"And now?"

"It would be inappropriate – the circumstances are different."

"Because I am no longer your student?"

"Precisely." Turning back to the baby, he croons, "Say Papa."

"Mama!"

"I am crushed."

"Papa?"

"Brava, Belle. Brava."


	10. Argument Recalled

Argument Recalled

The bride's raven colored hair is drawn into a single plait hanging down her back. Her veil of tulle bordered in Alencon lace flows from a tiara of silk gardenias embellished with rhinestones. The satin gown in the palest shade of peach complements her pale skin and aquamarine eyes – her mother's eyes.

Erik and Christine observe the reception from a love seat in a quiet corner of the sitting room, close enough to hear drifts of conversation, secluded enough to maintain their own commentary.

"I believe Belle is a combination of both our coloring."

"You are thinking wishfully again, my dear. She is nothing like me."

"Your skin tone…and your hair was likely black – one does not find that shade of brown in Sweden – although there was seldom much of it to be certain."

"Despite your best efforts."

"Despite your complaints about my best efforts." Her hand wanders idly to his wig – now a creation of pure white to reflect his elder years. The black would be even more dishonest now than it was twenty years ago.

Taking that hand before she is able to meddle, he kisses, then holds it between his own hands. "Well, however her looks came to be – she is stunning – like her mother."

"Are you happy, my husband?"

"I am," he says. "If one consider my life began when I first heard you sing – I am a young man, barely in his prime."

Christine laughs, placing her head on his shoulder. "Did you ever think after our first argument we would someday be watching our daughter get married?"

"What argument would that be?" His brow furrows.

"You must remember – you were terribly angry with me."

"How could I ever be angry – terribly or otherwise – with you?"

"You came through the mirror in my dressing room…"

"Did we argue? I remember your singing…and my singing."

"I removed your mask – you were quite upset."

"You consider that an argument."

"What would you call it?"

"Rage, madness, insanity – I was quite close to doing both of us in, if I am recalling correctly. Besides which, arguments generally involve two people yelling at one another – I believe I was the only one ranting and raving."

"I did provoke you."

"That you did, although I suppose you had good reason."

"I just wanted to see what you were hiding."

"Yes, well, one always wears a mask in the hopes that a beautiful young woman will tear it off to see what is hidden beneath."

"You are being very reasonable about it now – at the time…"

"You asked me if I thought we would someday be watching our daughter get married after our first argument," he says. "The answer is no, I am surprised with every day I wake up breathing. That you are in bed beside me is a miracle. To have ever thought I would see a child of mine marry never entered my mind."

"So, you are not mad?"

"No, I am always mad," he says, staring in front of him.

Taking his chin in her hand, she turns his face to hers. "You are…mad, angry?"

"I shall always be a madman, my dearest wife," he chuckles. "But, no, I am not angry. You must admit though, you were quite impertinent…and very brave."

"A moment I shall never forget or regret."

Erik rises, holding his hand out to her. "It appears that toasts are being made – let us celebrate the product of our first argument."


	11. A Gift of the Finest Cotton

A Gift of the Finest Cotton

"Maman, tell me again about when Pappa taught you to sing," Belle Angelique says, sitting on the four-poster in the bedroom of the house beneath the Palais Garnier.

Christine stops folding freshly washed linens, crossing her arms across the bodice of the peach silk day dress, to ponder the question. "What story do you wish to know – I have told you so many?"

"Well, we live in the apartment on the Rue de Rivoli and we have the country house – but you still come down here sometimes," the nineteen-year-old says – toying with one of her raven black braids, plaited with blue ribbons matching her chambray dress. "It is so dark and dreary – why do you come back?"

"You were born in this room, young lady – this is where your pappa and I spent our first days together." A brief survey of their surroundings brings a smile to Christine's lips. "I have always found it quite charming." The slightest blush colors her cheeks – partly that she is discussing something so intimate with her daughter and partly due to her recollections of those first days.

Belle's eyes, so like her own, quiz her. "Did he teach you in this room?"

"No." _Not music in any event. _

Not much had changed here in the twenty years since the fateful performance of _Don Juan Triumphan_t – the bedroom retained the Louis Phillippe furnishings – decorated in shades of blue. Ice blue damask curtains hung from the bed posts. The walls displayed similar draperies she assumed covered windows, but when examined, they were simply illusory, no windows were present – just more wall.

It was a replica of the room in the first home he built beneath the opera house– where she had taken her lessons, but it still surprised her to discover the small elements he introduced to make this home more normal – if anything in their lives or courtship could be called normal.

During those hours that would be daylight above ground, electric lamps would be lit in every room – not exactly like the sun, but bright and cheerful. In the evening, the lighting would be only in occupied rooms. When they moved to their home above ground, they continued to stay here when Christine was performing. After the children were born and it was not practical to move the family back and forth, the two of them would escape the world for a night…or afternoon.

"What then?"

"Sheets," she says. Who have ever thought one of her first recollection of the nights spent at the Maestro's home would be of sheets? And, yet, there it was.

"Sheets?" Belle picks up one of the pillow cases from the stack. "Like this?"

Christine nods. "Just feel the fabric – so soft and smell how fresh."

"All of our bedding is like this at home – I do not understand."

"This is Egyptian cotton – quite expensive and not something I was familiar with."

The girl cocks her head.

"I have told you how my pappa and I traveled and often slept in poor places – sometimes outside - bedding was seldom clean if present at all."

"Yes."

"While your Nanna Adele had a very nice home – the bedding was always clean, but scratchy." She sits down next to her daughter and takes the pillowcase, stroking it first with her fingertips, then presses it against her face.

"Your pappa had purchased the very best bed linens he could find for me and I remember how soft the fabric felt against my skin." Blushing again, she says, "There were nights when I removed all my clothing, even my chemise, so I could feel the sheets against my body."

"Maman – even before you were married!"

"When I was learning music I slept alone. Your pappa was always the perfect gentleman."

"I see him watch you sometimes – he may be glum or upset about something, but when he looks at you he becomes happy."

"He has made me very happy, as Andre will make you happy." Christine gets up and goes to the armoire. She returns to the bed with a single pillow case, handing it to Belle. "When I first came to live here, I embroidered our initials on all the linen. This is one of those pieces."

"It is beautiful – you did all the linen? I never knew."

"This case was on the bed the night of our wedding. Do you think you might like it to be part of your wedding gown – perhaps the underskirt?"

"Something old?"

"Yes – or blue…the stitching."

"I think that would be lovely."

"I shall be certain you have a lovely embroidered set of the Egyptian cotton sheets for your marriage bed."

"Thank you, Maman." Belle grins, eyelids lowered. "Andre will be so pleased – the sheets will make our wedding night all the more special."

"I only wish for your happiness."

"Oh, he has already made me happy." Belle's eyes sparkle.

"Indeed?"

Now it is her daughter's turn to blush. "I mean – he makes me laugh and he is so talented and clever…"

Chuckling, Christine tosses a towel at the young girl. "Now help me fold the rest of the laundry, so we can see the dressmaker for your fitting and bring her this little addition."


	12. Cinnamon and Myrrh

Cinnamon and Myrrh

Cinnamon and a touch of myrrh. The fragrance always preceded the voice. The last scent she would associate with her father and her first awareness of the Angel of Music. Pappa never said how she would know the Angel, only that he would send him to her after his death.

The once stocky and sturdy Swede's body, rotting from within, withered to a shell, created an almost unbearable sweet odor drove her to seek respite outside the confinements of Adele's flat. Christine wandered, soon finding herself in the Marais – the Jewish District. A small shop attracted her attention – most of the signs were in a language foreign to her, save one offering herbs, spices, and healing medicinals.

A small bell rang when she opened the door, followed by a blend of fragrances that was almost overwhelming, were they not also enlivening. This was the first time in many weeks, months she felt the burden of Gustave's illness lifted – even a little.

"Mademoiselle?" A man of middle years, with a long dark beard hanging to the top of his waistcoat. A woven black cap on the back of his head. "How may I assist you?"

"My father…" Her voice wavered.

"I see," he said. "Come sit." He indicates a small chair next to a table holding a number of covered glass canisters.

The jars fascinated her – the names – rosemary, basil, mint, lavender, parsley, thyme. Each one seemed to want to speak to her. Pulling her chair closer to the table, she followed the man with her eyes. Which of these magical plants would he offer her – could they cure her father?

Taking a seat behind the table, he drew one of the jars toward him, opening it he removed what looked like a stick of wood. "Cinnamon – a most powerful herb – it gives one strength to face any difficulty – the last of which is meeting with God upon one's death."

"But he is not dead." Taken aback, she was barely able to contain the tears welling in her aqua-colored eyes.

The rabbi's own gentle brown eyes rested on the girl – worn by her grief. For her to even seek a Jew to help her father was indication of her desperation. "The spice is ancient and was used in Egypt and Babylon for embalming – purifying the flesh. It is also a perfume, used to enhance sensuality – thus, affirming life-giving properties." Holding out a stick of the spice for her to smell, he smiled.

"The fragrance is wonderful." A sense of peace settled over her.

"Taste it – a tiny bite."

Christine bit off a small piece, letting it rest on her tongue – her smile grew broader. "It is warm. The fragrance is richer now."

"It is particularly good to grate in cocoa." His own smile wider now that she seems more comfortable with the issue at hand. "_Two hundred and fifty shekels of sweet cinnamon is the second ingredient in the holy anointing oil."*_

"I am not to give him the stick?"

"No, no – you will take the stick and a few more to make a tea…or for the chocolate," he says. "I have an oil prepared, it includes the cinnamon and myrrh – a bitter herb, with a deeper sensibility – and some others. This is not the holy anointing oil, as I am prohibited by my religious laws to make it for personal use, however, the oil will give comfort to your father…and to you."

As promised, it eased his pain, but more importantly, the potion had eased his heart and hers. So when, on the first night she was assigned the small dressing room, she caught a whiff of herbs she had rubbed on her father's body, her heart lifted.

"Angel?"

"Christine."

* * *

A/N – This was a prompt from tumblr "Herbs - do you believe in magic. It turned out to be my explanation for the "smell of death" Christine associates with Erik's presence.

*Exodus 30:23


	13. Who Are You?

Who Are You?

"There," Erik says, pointing to the two-story, stone house. Paned windows – the green wood shutters open - looked down at the road from gentle rise. Evidence of the fire is still present in the scorched bark of trees surviving the blaze. Otherwise, the landscaping was replaced and only knowing a fire took place, would suggest it happened at all.

In the months since discovering an old enemy set fire to his family home, Erik worked as often as possible on renovating the property – to have a country home for Christine and their expected baby.

It had been forty years since he lived in/escaped from St. Martin de Boscherville, but the more visits he made to the small village, the deeper his affection grew for the quiet and peace he discovered there.

"This is it – your house?" Christine asks, as Erik guides the carriage up the semi-circular gravel driveway. "It does not appear to have been damaged at all."

"The workmen did a masterful job," Erik says, bringing the carriage to a stop, jumping down to tie the horse to the hitching post before helping Christine. "The basic structure and foundation was still sound – the interior suffered the greatest dama…"

A rustling of leaves and the screech of fussing owls taking flight interrupts him.

"Erik, look…" Christine points to a copse of trees bordering the land grasses beyond the cultured garden surrounding the house. "…one…two…four birds – the wing-span is so wide."

"Hibou des marais…short-eared owl," he comments. "My mother once accused me of being some sort of owl changeling. These are not terribly large, but she said what disturbed her were the yellow irises embedded in the black area of a large whitish facial disc. The expression they wear was, to her mind, disturbing and strange – like me in my mask. And, of course, the hooting."

"She thought your voice sounded like an owl hooting?"

"They have a number of vocal inflections – one sounds like a child begging for food – Madeleine was very sensitive to sound," he smirks.

"That would almost be funny if I did not know of your mother's cruelty."

"In all fairness, the comments about the owl were actually spoken in humor – such as she was willing to expend on me – her idea of a joke."

"They are common here?"

"Oh, yes – that area will often house twenty birds," he says. "Also troubling was they are not nocturnal. Many times she would come running into the house after having one of them swoop over her when she was in the garden."

"Well, good – I have no sympathy for her in that regard," She says, taking his arm, taking in the property. "This all seems so familiar to me."

Stopping before they reach the doorway, Erik steers her on the brick pathway to the back of the house. "This is what I thought you would love – the open lands."

"Are those church spires in the distance?"

"Yes, the Abbey of Saint-Georges," he says, cocking his head. "Do you know it?"

"Perhaps – I think so. All this land, from the moment we arrived, I felt as though I had been here before – walking these fields."

"You and your father traveled through Normandy?"

"I do not remember the places or names – when I think back, I feel we walked the entire continent," she laughs. "But I recall a beautiful church, with flowing gardens where pappa played and I sang. It struck me odd that the town was so small and the church so grand."

"The intricacies of life will never cease to amaze me," he says, pulling her close, pressing his hand against the child growing within her.

"What now?"

"How we might have met here had I not run away."

"I was but a child – if this is, indeed, the town we passed through."

"You are still very young and I am aging faster than I would like."

"Oh, stop – we are just fine as we are," Christine says, placing her hand on his. "I doubt pappa would have allowed you – or anyone to teach me. He was quite protective."

"Just a brief fantasy – I often wish we might have had a kinder meeting."

"What is it you have been telling me about things happening when they are supposed to – how we met when we were intended to meet?"

"True enough," he says, lifting her hand to his lips. "That we met at all had me forget any other dreams of renown I may have once had – music, architecture, alchemy – my only wish now is to be remembered as the mentor to and husband of Christine Daae."

"All very sweet in saying, but I know you too well – you would wish to be admired for all your gifts…and some you do not possess – although I have no idea what those might be."

"Christine! You hurt my heart." Pressing a fist against his chest to demonstrate his anguish.

"Stop acting so shocked," she chuckles, "We both know I am telling the truth."

As if to confirm her statement, another owl breaks away from the trees, accompanied by a chorus of hoots and cackles.

Erik joins Christine in her laughter. "They agree," she says.

"I thought we left Nadir back in Paris."


	14. Why Am I Doing This?

More about Erik's hair and Christine's obsession with it. Enjoy!

* * *

Why Am I Doing This?

It was years since she had visited the Marais District. A day of despair over Gustave's illness drove her from the flat finding her wandering the puzzle of streets that is Paris. Fortune had her find an herbalist whose compassion and wisdom produced an oil to ease her father's pain and depression – hers as well. The scent would also announce the presence of the man who would become her husband.

Her Angel of Music.

An angel who had an abundance of talent, wit, humor, wisdom and almost every other fine quality a human being could want but lacked a decent head of hair.

Despite his grumbling, his hair was of deep concern to her. Erik was so fastidious about everything touching his life – yet, something so personal and, to her mind, easy enough to address brought out a fierce contrariness challenging her own obstinate nature.

This was war – one she was determined to win.

After another of their many arguments on the topic, she sat him down in the sitting room in his arm chair, removed his wig, handing it to him, and, as was her habit, began toying with the fine tufts sprouting haphazardly from his scalp. "This is not normal."

"My hair is fine, Christine." One could almost hear the sound of his teeth grinding.

"No, it is not fine," she argued, her own mouth pressed into a firm line, her aquamarine eyes hard as the gemstone of the same color. "Did you have hair when you were a child?"

"Yes." With a deep sigh, he said, "My mother had always let it grow – thick and black – it was the one aspect of my head she found worthy of praise. Marie was allowed to groom it. After making a part, she would brush it over the…ugliness. A trim with the scissors and that part of me appeared normal."

"Did you have hair when you were in Persia?" Her delicate fingers massaged his scalp – a nightly ritual he enjoyed once he got past an initial reflex to pull away.

As he opened his mouth to respond, she said, "Do not lie to me, because Nadir has already told me that it grew oddly, but it grew."

"If you knew the answer already, why did you ask?" His tone matter-of-fact, her ministrations casting their spell over him. Truthfully, he did not know why the issue of his hair disturbed him so. The story of Samson crossed his mind. There was no conscious belief that his strength came from his hair. Perhaps it was Christine's determination provoking his rebellion. All he knew was a deep ire arose whenever the topic came up and he wished she would just leave it be.

"What is your answer then?"

"Yes," he said. "It grew oddly – odd way to put it, but yes. As I said it was very long, with this…" Waving his hand at the melted side of his head "…bald." A slight smirk curved his lips. "I was actually rather fond of how I looked."

"Really?"

"No – I think it made the rage more intense." He lifted a hand, pressing it against hers, stopping the massage. "I would hold my hand or a book to cover the mockery of my birth and gaze at myself in the mirror – pretending I was handsome – beautiful. A man with half a face." Clearing his throat to regain a composure rapidly slipping away, he continued, "It was then I started wearing the porcelain half mask – fostering the illusion."

Pressing a kiss against his hand, she abandoned her task to sit on the foot stool in front of him, resting her head on his lap – their roles reversed as he cards his long fingers through her chestnut curls.

"When did you start losing it?"

"When I came to Paris," he sighed, realizing the Inquisition would have found his wife to be an able prosecutor – wearing down any witness who was brought before her.

"Why?"

"Fashion – of all things, my long hair was decidedly not in fashion and the idea of visiting a barber on a regular basis…well…I decided it was easier to wear a wig – so I cut it off and voila." He waved the wig in his hand.

"What do you mean – voila?"

"This was made from my own hair."

"Yours?"

"There was enough for two wigs – I wore them rarely – I would say they held up quite well."

Her laugh surprised both of them. "So it_ was_ the wig caused the loss."

"In more ways than one, I suppose – blocked pores, no air – add to that, I did not care."

"I do not believe you – I think you cared too much."

"I suppose you are right – my vanity was my undoing. My one physical beauty…" Lifting her chin with a finger, he smiled. "When I began to care, when you entered my life – it was too late."

The shop is where she remembered it to be.

"Why am I doing this?" he grumbles, as she opens the door, sounding the little bell.

"Because you love me." Her grin is infectious and he responds with his own broad smile.

The bearded man asks, his beard, still long, but now touched with gray. With the light of recognition on his face, he says, "Madamoiselle, it is a pleasure to see you again – the circumstances more pleasant, it would appear."

"My husband."

"Monsieur," he says, seemingly unfazed by the mask. "How may I be of service?"

"My wife believes you might help me grow my hair."


	15. Have I Said Too Much?

A/N - In response to a dialogue prompt.

* * *

Have I Said Too Much?

The silence in the room was absolute – the expression _you could have heard a pin drop_ crossed her mind. Well, perhaps a pin could not be heard – thanks to the Aubusson rugs covering the floor. Still the absence of sound was unnerving. The words were out of her mouth before she was even aware of what she was saying. A trait Maman often said would be her demise.

Yet, there were others who felt it to be an admirable quality – unvarnished truth. If not truth – honesty – but truth as well…sometimes. That was it – she was honest and forthright and spoke her mind. Was that not a good thing? Of course it was. So why then is everyone in the elegant sitting room looking at her with such shock and alarm?

More often than not her words brought laughter – something that annoyed her. She was neither comic nor jester. Nor was she a fool, someone to be laughed at the moment she ventured an opinion. Did anyone care if _her_ feelings were hurt? No.

"It is not your place."

"You do not know that for a fact."

"Those things are not discussed in public."

"Why?"

"But it is true."

"They should be."

Laughter was not a concern now, though. This particular incident has her completely flummoxed. Anyone with eyes could see the very thing she was talking about. Why the upset? "Have I said too much?"

Erik's bizarre laugh – the one crossing a dog's bark with honking of a goose – the laugh only roused when he was taken by surprise or particularly amused – breaks the uneasy silence. "No, Meg. It is true I _am_ old enough to be Christine's father and, at some point, Belle_ may_ think I am her grandpappa, but for now I am simply a proud husband and doting father."

The flush of her cheeks matches the rose pink of her dress. "Uncle Erik, I am so sorry. I did not think."

"No harm done – diplomacy is not my strong suit either." Raising his champagne flute, he says, "Come, everyone, let us toast Belle's Christening. May her life be long and happy and continue to be blessed with loving and honest friends like her Auntie Meg."


	16. Uncertain

Uncertain

Sleep was his enemy. It was simple as that. However long he would live – whatever events in his life – sleep would not allow him rest.

In the past, it was a nuisance, interrupting his work. Too often he woke with his head lying on the music desk of his organ, pages of erratic notes that might have come to be an aria or sonata – the concept lost due to his body's demand for nepenthe – were his pillow. The frustration at his inability to recall that special combination of notes was deep and negated any positive sense of well-being that might have been accomplished with rest. Sleeping with his head on the hard wooden surface also created a variety of aches and pains one would hope slumber might assist not exacerbate.

Years before, he sought oblivion from his omnipresent loneliness, experienced when his active…overactive mine was unoccupied. In those times, he was assisted by drugs or, more recently, a snifter of brandy or glass of wine. Ridding himself of the opium had been difficult, but she was a cruel mistress and robbed him entirely of his music. The choice was bitter – the withdrawal a journey through hell – but ultimately the purer love of music overwhelmed the infatuation with the drug.

There was a price to pay – beyond the physical agony – the nightmares returned. Journeys into the darkest parts of his mind – the dead – those he killed or those who attempted to kill him - returning to take his life in small increments, leaving him with bouts of madness in its place.

Milder soporifics were cheats and liars – promising peace, but only at first. Lulled into a sense of safety, he would settle into the casket – designed specifically to temper the nightmares if they came. The soft padding on the sides, gave comfort, but also prevented his wounding himself if he struck out at whatever demons were pursuing him. Sachets of lavender and chamomile lined the sides – their scent enlisted to calm him. Better to stay awake. Better to risk the aching neck or back if his fatigue found him unresistant at work.

Worse, though, in many ways, was this new sleep. Natural sleep. The sleep that came to him after making love – be it intense couplings he had only fantasized to gentle kisses good-night – with his wife. His Christine. This blessed woman who somehow loved him despite all his ugliness of body and behavior…and the self-hatred.

Lying beside her, their bodies entwined, was bliss – until those rare occasions, like now, when she rolls over to her side of the bed away from him. The movement rouses him and he is left staring at the shadows on the ceiling created by the light coming in from the sitting room. Christine's own fears about sleep requiring the door be kept open with at least one lamp burning.

Such a slight move – not even a real rejection, just finding more comfort, especially now with the child coming. Nevertheless, the doubts rise up, a pervasive sadness infecting what has been…is the happiest time of his life.

They exchange I love yous often – several times a day, in fact – at her initiation as well as his…and, yet, he wonders how could she.

"Erik?" she says, rolling toward him, nuzzling her face into his neck, "are you mulling your fate again?"

"What fate might that be, my dear?" The tension flowing from his body into the mattress at her touch and mocking words. Adjusting his body to fold an arm around her, kissing her chestnut curls. Inhaling her own smell accentuated with – what was it tonight? Gardenia.

"About my love for you – I do love you."

"I know."

"You must more than _know_ in that brain of yours, you must believe."

"In time."

"Soon I hope," she says, petting his chest, snuggling closer to him. "Now, go back to sleep."

"Yes, my dear." Comforted, for now, by her assurances, he closes his golden eyes and sleeps.

* * *

A/N – In response to a writing prompt: ❛ Are people so unhappy when they love? — Yes, when they love and are not sure of being loved."


	17. Destiny

Destiny

Dizzying flashes of red, green, blue and yellow - the discordant organ music of the carousel brought a smile to Christine's face – easing the tension she had been feeling since agreeing to this outing. The crowds of people surrounding them followed no particular path – a young couple first pointing at the Ferris Wheel, before stopping in amazement to watch the performers – a man on stilts, a juggler. A father and mother attempting to corral their three children, each pressing to go in a different direction. Occasional whoops of pleasure – an occasional tussle. Fairs and the like – the people, the smells of cooking meat and popped corn – the noise, especially the noise – were not completely unfamiliar to Christine.

Pappa Gustave had made his living playing his violin at venues such as this. There was a sense of coming home being here, were she being truly honest with herself. And there was no reason to be otherwise.

The enormity of Phantasma left her awestruck. All of these combined brought her to a state that bordered on pure bliss. Her own happiness was reflected in her son's eyes.

Erik had built this. Erik, Mr. Y – Mister Y – mystery – such a clever man, her Erik…no, not her Erik – best not to think in those terms. Still, young Gustave, at age ten, was able to express the joy and excitement she herself kept contained close to her heart.

"Not exactly the Palais Garnier, is it?"

"An understatement – but then this is a place for fun."

"You did not think the opera to be fun?" Erik raised an eyebrow.

"Surely you are not seri…" Christine cut short her response once she looked away from the horses, giraffes, rabbits and dogs chasing one another around and around, never to be caught, to see the glimmer of a smile creasing the uncovered side of his face, revealing a dimple she had not known existed. More mysteries unveiled. Had she ever seen him smile? "You have changed."

"I have aged."

"That is not it. I have aged as well, but feel the heavier for it."

"Your marriage…"

The sharpness of her look cut him short. The topic had so far been off limits – her intention was to keep it so – for the time being.

"I left you with an incredible burden – even had you not become with child."

Ignoring his remarks, her attention returned to the merry-go-round, "Look, there is Gustave!" The spate of anger dissolved in the pleasure of seeing her son – their son – thoroughly enjoying himself. The wooden sword, a gift, one of the many Erik had bestowed on him, waving in the air at the dragon he pursued from his mighty black horse rearing on its hind legs.

"Gustave, be careful, hold onto the reins with both hands," she called out. A deep sigh suggested she realized the boy either could not or would not hear her cautions.

"That is quite a steed he chose – are you certain you do not want to ride? There are seats disguised as animals – the lovely swan, perhaps."

"Can you assure I will not become ill – the voyage here found me below deck more often than I care to admit?"

"Did no one inform you that the air and watching the horizon would quell the upset?"

"No."

"I thought Raoul was a navy man." His tone matter-of-fact, no suggestion of sarcasm. Despite his hatred of her husband – he was taking care to keep his comments neutral, if he spoke of him at all.

"As you have become aware – Raoul is not terribly interested in his family." She had broken her own rule, looking straight ahead, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was she really saying so much? Wells of anger bubbled up from somewhere deep within, bringing a flush to her cheeks. Yet another offense to push down. This was neither time nor place, if there ever would be, to allow all the feelings roiling within her to flow freely.

"Bitterness does not become you." Erik's voice is soft, tinged with sadness – keeping his own eyes facing forward on the changing panorama the carousel presented. The movement of the wheel allowed them both an odd sense of privacy in the midst of the humanity surrounding them.

"Be that as it may – it exists. My joy is my son."

"Our son?"

Her eyes – the color of a mountain stream – threatened to shred him.

"_My son_. For now, he is mine alone."

"I will accept the _for now._"

"You really have no choice." Despite the harsh words, her tone was light…teasing. She could not deny the comfort – the rightness – she felt being in his presence again. Ten years was it? He talked of how difficult it had been for him. Believed she understood why he left her bereft and alone. Of course he was wrong – she did not understand then – was not sure she could understand now – whatever he might say.

Why had she left _him_ alone in the lair that night – leaving with Raoul was not what she wanted – not after kissing Erik, feeling his heart next to hers when she pulled him close. If only he had given some encouragement for her to stay. He had set her free – but it was not the freedom she wished for.

It had taken weeks of living under the oppressive rule of the Chagnys, planning a wedding she could not embrace with any pleasure. Raoul was already using liquor and gambling to fill the empty hours of his life. The events of that night proved more than he could cope with. Then there was the blame. The ever present blame hanging over them both like a storm cloud – never spoken or recognized in a way to dispel the darkness.

She had waited too long to return to him, to the lake, to the darkness where she had fallen in love with her Angel of Music. An angel who turned out to be merely a man. Little did he know when he told her _Destiny has chained you to me forever,_ how true that statement would prove to be. She was his as much as he was hers.

Or perhaps he did know. Ten years had given her a great deal of time to play their relationship over and over in her mind. Despite her greatest efforts to dismiss him – he was always there in the person of their son.

The boy's fascination with music – beyond the gifts one might expect from a mother with a heavenly voice, or a grandfather who could charm the sourest of drunkards at the inns where they would often stay. Gustave composed pieces of music intricate and complex, suited to someone far older – to the point where she was often uncomfortable listening to them. His curiosity about anything and everything wore out tutor after tutor – he would learn faster than they could teach.

That Raoul was unable to love the boy was no surprise. Yet, she still wished he would try – the fault was not Gustave's. Their efforts to conceive a child failed. Fate would bless her with one child and that child was Erik's.

"Why did you leave?"

His response was so quick – the four simple words were barely out of her mouth when he answered.

"I was hunted. Everything I owned was destroyed – I could not move freely – day or night – despite the pain of losing you, I was not prepared to die. Paris only held death. It was only recently I have been able to access my financial resources."

The words sounded rehearsed – or, perhaps she had simply become used to excuses and explanations. Had he hoped for this moment to explain? Had he hoped the explanation would be enough? "I could have talked to them."

"Ah, Christine – I had created a situation for myself whereby people wanted me dead. It mattered naught my sins did not deserve such vengeance."

"Because Piangi did not die?"

"Piangi did not die – Buquet was a victim of one of my traps, but it was an accident. My sin was loving you and you defending me. I could not allow you to suffer for your kindness." The golden eyes, moist with tears, plead for her understanding. "They would have killed you, too."

Pressing her hand against his arm, before resting her head on his shoulder – the first time since being reunited did she trust herself to touch him. "If you could change things?

"You would come with me…with us…to join the circus."

"Was it terrible?"

"It was necessary – and it was my choice."

"They hate me, you know."

"Not then," he chuckles. "You were asking about then."

"Now?"

"You said there was no now for us."

"I am reconsidering."

When he leaned down to kiss her – she pulled back. "I need time…"

Erik nodded, taking her arm. "Look, the carousel is coming to a stop. Come, take a ride, I am certain Gustave would approve."

"No doubt."

When they located the boy, Erik lifted her onto the ride, jumping up after her.

"You are going to join me?" The boy exclaims. "It is so much fun – you must sit on the dragon so I can chase you."

"Your mother and I will sit here and watch your pursuit of that dastardly beast."

Satisfied with the response, Gustave settles into the gilded saddle, urging the horse with his heels. "Onward!"

As if in response to the boy's command, the organ played and the carousel, along with the couple seated in a carved swan, began a new journey.

* * *

A/N – writer's prompt – quotations from POTO ❛ Destiny has chained you to me forever. ❜

This chapter is also posted under the Story "Ten Long Years." I opened a new story for LND chapters. Will continue posting to both stories for the time being.


	18. The Gift of Second Chances

The Gift of Second Chances

"I still do not understand why you do not have a dress made – these costumes are just that – costumes," Erik says, strolling through the racks of colorful silks, satins and taffeta in the opera house wardrobe room, pulling a gown out every few steps before pushing it back.

"There are really no white gowns – and no white fabric here to make one," Christine says, picking through a stack of fabric next to one of the four sewing machines placed on tables around the room. "That is the color most in fashion – although you never were one to follow tradition."

"Why not red?" Erik says. "That is traditional in China – red dress, red veil." Pulling out a gown of deep red with green and gold appointments, he holds it up for the others to see. "You would stop traffic in this."

"Time – we have put off our wedding well beyond the posting of banns, besides, this would be like wearing something handed down from family."

"Too much crime solving and not enough private time – I am tired of being a bachelor," Nadir says, lifting up a piece of brocade in blues and greens, he presses it against his chest. "Would this do for a dinner jacket – or a dervish hat?"

"Not if Maman chooses red," Meg says – tossing him a swatch of black on black cut velvet.

"I'm not sure I should wear a veil, even if I did wear any sort of gown," Adele says. "I do like red, Erik, but that gown you are holding has more color than I care for. Stopping traffic was not exactly my intention. Besides it look as if it weighs more than I do."

"Did not Carlotta wear that in _Hannibal_?" Christine asks. "Even if the seamstress could alter it to fit – I am not certain it would suit the occasion."

Erik laughs. "I was thinking Adele could wear this and carry a replica of Nadir's head to the mairie – reminding him of who was in charge."

"Very funny," Nadir growls. "My love would look beautiful in anything – if she wants to wear a gown of chain mail it matters little to me – she already has my heart." Wrapping an arm around her, he kisses Adele on the cheek.

"Thank you, my dear." With a deep sigh she walks over to another rack, where the ballet costumes hang. "This is more difficult than I thought – nothing seems…appropriate."

"Why would you not want a veil?" Christine asks. "A small bonnet and a lovely face veil – with your black hair." She kisses her fingers. "Ooo la, la."

Nadir raises his eyebrows. "My Adele an ooo, la, la girl? I think I like that," he chuckles, attempting a can-can kick.

Adele's sour look has him clearing his throat and moving off to the other side of the room to the sound of Erik's laughter.

"I like pink," Meg says, holding a deep rose gown of heavy silk in front of her. "This is almost red."

"Save that one for yourself, Little Giry," Erik says. "It is wonderful with your coloring."

"I like this," Adele says, holding up a more traditional ballerina costume. "It is from _Sleeping Beauty –_ one of the godmothers wore red."

"Maman, you would wear a tutu?"

"No, of course not, but the bodice is lovely. I like the straps and the intricate gold and silver beading."

"Would you want a tulle skirt?" Christine asks, a touch of skepticism lacing her voice.

"I think a long skirt in a similar fabric as the bodice – satin, some cap sleeves, with hints of the beading – perhaps a touch of tulle as a bustle – and decoration for a small hat."

"Perhaps a peplum of the tulle – to suggest a tutu?" Christine says.

"You will be so beautiful," Meg says.

"Prima ballerina again," adds Christine. "I wish I could have seen you dance."

"I have no vision of what you describe based on the dress you are holding, but the look on your face tells me you will be a vision wearing it."

"Most appropriate, Madame," Erik says. "You will be stunning."

The Magistrate raises his eyebrows as a young couple leaves with their witnesses, and the next wedding party presents itself.

The tall man with the half mask – again dressed in formal black – and the beautiful woman on his arm, now in lavender – are witnesses rather than bride and groom.

The petite blonde in her deep rose and her gentleman – dressed in a formal Persian coat and black astrakhan hat, fulfill the witness requirement.

His eyes brighten behind round glasses at the older woman in deep red, complementing her black hair and pale ivory skin, accompanied by her groom in a multi-colored dervish hat he recalls from his last visit to this office. His long coat is black with cut velvet lapels.

Each member of the wedding party wears or carries red roses – the bride's in a small bouquet. Her costume reminds him of the ballet – despite her cane, her bearing is as graceful as Sorelli, the Prima Ballerina at the Palais Garnier.

As before, his spirit lifts in the presence of this unusual group of people. Not wishing to rush his own experience he asks, "Will you and the Madame Saint-Rien - La Daae - be singing today? After you were wed, my wife and I went to the Opera for the first time. She will be so envious to know you were here today."

Christine gazes up at Erik and smiles – he squeezes her waist.

"It was not our plan – we did not wish to disrupt the business of the mairie," Nadir says.

"We have time – the other couples would likely enjoy such beautiful voices as much as I would."

"Perhaps they should exchange their vows first?" Erik says with a smirk. "I would not want my friend to bolt."

"Why would you say that about me?" Nadir harrumphs.

"I was speaking of Adele."

"Very well," the magistrate says. "Would you like to begin M. Khan?"

"Yes, I would."

Adele hands her stick to Meg Turning to face Nadir, she gives him her hands.

"I, Nadir Amad Khan, take you Adele Cecilia Giry, to be my wedded wife. You came into my life and filled a deep void. I never thought I could or would love again, but there you were that day at the opera house and my life has only grown better and better for it."

"I, Adele Cecilia Giry, take you Nadir Amad Khan, to be my wedded husband. "We are soul mates in our losses and in the treasure we found in one another. I feel truly blessed to have you in my life."

"Will there be an exchange of rings?"

Nadir nods and removes a ring from the pocket of his waistcoat – a plain gold band he places on her ring finger next to the round ruby, gifted at their engagement. "With this ring, I wed thee."

For her turn, Adele places a similar gold band on Nadir's ring finger. "With this ring, I wed thee."

Both are flushed, with tears brimming their eyes. Nadir bends to kiss his lady, caressing her cheek gently. "I love you so."

"And, I, you."

"With the power vested in my, I pronounce you man and wife."

Erik and Christine join voices, celebrating the love of their friends.

_Love will turn your world around _

_And that world will last forever _

_Yes love, love changes everything _

_Brings you glory, brings you shame _

_Nothing in the world will ever be the same._

* * *

A/N: The time of the wedding fell in between my stories The Gift of the Present and The Gift of New Beginnings, so wasn't included in either story. Hope you like this one-shot.


	19. You Cannot Tell Me What to Do Anymore

You Cannot Tell Me What to Do Anymore

"Noooo!" Despite exerting all his power, Erik could not dislodge Pere Mansart from his stance in front of the French doors to the garden. The boy's gangly arms and legs were no match for the priest's heavy torso and muscular arms holding him so he was no better than a marionette kicking and punching at the air.

"It is no use, son, they have done their worst to the dog – they will do the same to you should I let you go." Sensing his surrender, Mansart relaxes his hold and set Erik down, holding him only to be certain the boy has his own footing.

"You did this," he spits at Madeleine.

His mother clutches a handkerchief to her face, drying the tears flooding her eyes at the sight of Sasha lying beneath the maple tree in the garden. The small, lifeless body alone now that the neighborhood hooligans abandoned their siege on the household – determined to find the boy, but taking their blood lust out on the elderly spaniel.

"I shall bury her," Erik insists, reaching for the latch.

"No," his mother says. "They may be watching – waiting for you."

"What do I care?"

"Listen to your mother."

"Why? Her words only hurt." Turning his back on both of them, he runs up the stairs to his room.

He watches them bury the sweet pup from the window, allowing his own tears to fall for the one living being in his life that accepted and loved him from his earliest recollections. With new resolve, he packs a bag with some clothing, a few books, a bag of coins he has pilfered from her purse over the years, and a handful of cloth masks. A jacket, cap and bedroll complete the possessions he will take with him.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"Away."

"That is ridiculous – return to your room and wash before dinner."

"I could have saved her. Now I can only save myself."

Before she can take a step toward him – he lifts the mask from his face – aware that the sight of him will force her to turn away. "You must not go."

"Yes. I must," he says, opening the heavy wooden door to the street. "You cannot tell me what to do anymore."

* * *

A/N - Writing Prompt - Emotional Dialogue


	20. This Will Not Be Your Last Sunset

This Will Not Be Your Last Sunset

The noise of the revelry waxed and waned, or perhaps it was his consciousness. The concertina insinuated itself into his brain. The musician, if he could be considered such, not entirely familiar with the instrument, sharped what seemed to be every other note. The inaccuracy likely kept him from completely blacking out. A thank you to the gods was certainly in order were that the case.

Although the darkness continued to summon him, the shrill notes jarred his sensibilities and found him wanting to curse the bastard, grab the instrument from his fat hands and teach him how to play correctly. But for the fact that he could not move due to the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, he would have done so without concern for the consequences of his actions.

The musician in question was the leader of this band of ruffians who used him to attract customers, but found him too rough and ugly to be included in their merriment – tonight being the wedding of the master's sister to the owner of another sideshow – a business merger of sorts.

Erik found himself in these particularly dire straits because of a comment he made questioning the groom's suitability for marriage to such a young bride. The man and he could have competed in a contest for worst deformity – Erik's by birth, the man by living a rough life, causing the loss of his teeth, one eye and half his nose. The girl's look of gratitude meant little, however.

One infirmity, a dislocated hip, had the man carry a walking stick – one he did not hesitate in using to smite Erik across his brow. Erik supposed he was fortunate to have survived and merely tossed into his tent – bound with little concern for his injury, for certain – nevertheless, alive.

His consciousness almost fully recovered, had him removing the ropes – not so tightly wound he could not free his slim hands – the rest of the tethers discarded in short time.

A few more minutes had his pack stuffed with such personal belongings as he was allowed – some clothing and a fiddle. Other needs he would gather from the Master's tent – a canteen, dried meat and bread, a knife, a bag of gold coins, leaving sufficient behind so as not to provoke an all out search once they found him gone – and the black wool cloak and fedora he fancied. Lastly, a sweet brown mare he had befriended with gifts of apples and sweet grass.

The sun was going down – the sky ablaze in shades of a storm brewing – red, gray, gold. The celebration was in full bore – the music loud and wild – the dancing frenzied – multi-colored skirts whirling, long dark hair flying as the party-goers drank, laughed and flirted. No one was aware of his movements.

As an extra precaution, he walked the horse to a copse of trees before mounting and trotting slowly away from the campground. With a final look behind, he encouraged the horse to a gallop – laughing and congratulating himself. "This will not be your last sunset after all."

* * *

A/N - Emotional Dialogue writers prompt.


	21. I Do Not Break Anything When I Do It

I Usually Don't Break Anything When I Do It, Though

The mannequin fell with a loud crash, the head rolling, stopped from flying down onto the Rue Scribe only by virtue of the small wall surrounding the roof of the Palais Garnier.

"You were supposed to circle the neck. That was all. Throw the lasso to circle the neck."

"That is what I did."

"You pulled the wire too sharply. Gentle movement, allow the lasso to do the work."

"I suppose you never made a mistake when using this thing," Nadir growled.

"One cannot afford to make mistakes, but no…I usually do not break anything when I do it, though," Erik retorts. "That mannequin took me months to make –it is physiologically correct and was suited to you learning how to use the lasso. Now it is broken," he says, retrieving the head, taking it back to the body. He shakes his head.

"What?"

"You completely decapitated her, the workings have fallen into the torso – I shall have to fasten her head back on somehow – with a metal rod and plating I imagine."

"You said you did not care if she was damaged."

"Damaged, not destroyed and useless."

"I am surprised you are using it…her at all," Nadir sniggers.

Erik's amber eyes flash at him, causing his own green eyes to widen, comforted in the fact he is holding the garrote not the man glaring at him.

"Christine said get her out of the house – she was a good friend, but one does what one must to maintain a happy household."

"Best you not teach Christine the art of the Punjab lasso."

"Very funny."


	22. The Truce

The Truce

Despite their years of marriage, Erik could never quite get used to the natural physical affection Christine displayed toward him. Being touched or touching another was seldom a positive experience in his past.

Whether she came up behind him while he was preparing their dinner – sadly, her cooking skills never went beyond the baking of a fine cardamom bread – wrapping her arms around his waist in a gentle hug, or in their private moments when she examined the map of scars on his chest and back – studying him, as if trying to feel what it must have been like being on the receiving end of the scourge, the stick or the gashes created by the shards of glass he inflicted on himself, his initial response was apprehension.

There was no point attempting to dissuade her – his bride, his beloved wife, was quite willful and, in truth, he was rather fond of the care she took of him, mumbling only enough to suggest displeasure, so she would continue to have her way with him. This compassion, turned into what he fondly thought of as Christine's Odyssey. In an odd, and definitely bizarre way, he felt gratitude something good had evolved from the tortures.

Except. Except for the day she decided to examine his feet. Most of their exploration of the other's body generally focused on areas above the knees, most specifically the torso. For his part, Erik found Christine's feet off-putting – the one part of her imperfect and, frankly, ugly. It was not her fault, of course. As a ballet dancer, her toes were mangled, scarred, and deformed – not unlike his face. A sign of her superiority of character was the acceptance of him without the mask. He preferred her shod.

The scream let out when he removed her boot to attend to a sprained ankle frightened her – thinking her foot irreparably damaged when she fell. When she discovered what his reaction was all about – she found it both amusing and tragic. "Now I have some idea of what you have suffered," was her loving comment.

Although long and bony, his were quite normal as far as feet go. In fact, they were the one part of him unscathed – although there was that experiment of walking across burning coals in India came close to doing permanent damage. To this day, he marveled at his ability to perform that challenge.*

Nevertheless, Christine got the idea in her head to massage his feet – something he actually enjoyed – until the day she ran her fingers lightly along the sole of his left foot. A sensation shot through him, thrusting his body from a prone to upright position, jerking his foot away from her.

"What?" she asked. Taking his other foot and performing the same act, this time holding his ankle, so he was unable to pull away.

Tears filled his eyes as a bizarre laugh erupted from the depth of his chest. His squirming and kicking convinced her to release him – allowing him to catch his breath.

"You are ticklish," she exclaimed, unable to hold back a fit of giggles while, attempting to grab his foot yet again.

Resisting the desire to kick at her hands, he tucked his knees into this chest, rolling on his side as he cries, "I am begging you. Do not do this. Please."

Only when she gets up to sit next to him on the bed does he relax at her touch. "Are you all right?" Amusement at his reaction still evident in her voice.

"You are a terrible woman, Christine Daae," he said. "Attacking your poor husband in such a way."

"Oh, pshaw."

"Indeed. I seem to recall a certain sensitivity you experience in the area around your waist," he said, pinching her gently under the ribs.

"No," she cried, slapping at his hand. "I shall not tickle you if you do not tickle me."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Honoring the pledge, she bends over to kiss him. "Much better than tickling."

"Much."

* * *

This was written in response to a prompt on Tumblr.

*The coals or wood embers that are used in fire walking also have a low heat capacity. Sweat produced on the bottom of people's feet also helps form a protective water vapor. All of this together makes it possible, if moving quickly enough, to walk across hot coals without getting burned.


	23. The Chess Game

The Chess Game

"Ha!" Erik deftly moves his Knight into position to threaten Christine's Queen.

"Are you certain that move is wise?" Aquamarine eyes widen at the bold movement.

"Wise for whom – you or me?" he asks, unable to hide a smirk, half hidden beneath his mask.

"You, of course. Your Knight is most definitely in a position to be taken now by my Bishop."

"Then let it be so – it is a mere Knight."

"But you love your Knights – you always glow about how brilliant Knights are because they are not limited by straight lines to move around the boards. How you spent many of your younger years as a Knight traveling the world, never following the beaten path…"

"Enough…enough," he replies. "I am always appreciative of the Knight in chess and am no less so now. Sometimes a mighty warrior must sacrifice himself for the greater good."

"Harrumph. You are entirely too eager in sacrificing your piece. I see you chomping at the bit to announce mate." Squinting at the board, she examines the layout of the pieces.

"Perhaps if you put your glasses on."

"Now you are being rude – trying to distract me. I can see the board perfectly well without them, but…" Flashing him a small glare, she wipes her spectacle on a handkerchief before putting them on.

"You are most attractive with your glasses, my dear."

"Flattery will get you nowhere – you yourself suggested they might help my game."

"Did I say that? I do not recall saying that." He says, resting his chin on his hand, eyes gleaming – a broad smile on his face.

"You are being horrid, Erik, and just trying to distract me," she says, scrunching her nose at him. "Now, hush."

"Of course, my dear. Mum is the word." Pressing a long finger against his lips, he sits back in his chair, arms folded observing Christine's obvious consternation.

"Hmmm, I must assess the board for a moment." Her forehead furrows into a frown, studying every piece in play with her enhanced vision.

Erik chuckles at her distress. Christine has turned out to be a most astute student in chess – a pleasant surprise after years of playing with Nadir who almost never offered him a suitable challenge. Her skill was such, he began introducing deceptive moves to confuse her.

"You are a cruel master, Erik," she pouts. "This is one of your tricks, I know it."

"You are correct, my dear – the move is a decoy."

"You want me to take that square?"

"Precisely."

"Why?"

"Because then I can take your Bishop, so…" making the moves and removing both pieces, placing a Rook in the empty square, declaring. "Checkmate."

"Oh, you tricked me."

"You are becoming too astute at the game. I must use all my wiles to win these battles with you."

"This was particularly unfair – the game had hardly begun – you usually take much longer to entrap my King."

"Forgive my haste, I was fascinated by your sweet, rosy lips and wished to claim my prize," he chuckles. "I believe you owe me a kiss."

"But I get a kiss when I win – so you would have a kiss either way. Why must you rush?"

"Because not only do I get my kiss, I win the game as well."

"I shall keep that in mind when next we play." Rising from her chair, she moves to his lap to give him his reward. "If you want my opinion, though, since you insist on attaching prizes to winning and losing…"

"You challenge my competitive nature, what are you thinking?"

"How would you feel if when someone loses a piece, he or she removes a piece of clothing?" she giggles.

Erik flushes, then laughs at her suggestion, "You are quite the vixen, my wife. Is there are grand prize then – for the winner?"

"I suspect something will come to mind."

"Very well – I knew I would be a happy man when I taught this little game to you."

"Better than Nadir?"

"Infinitely better than Nadir."

* * *

Thanks to a prompt on tumblr: "I believe you owe me a kiss."


	24. A Stroll in the Park

A Stroll in the Park

"While I have come to love these walks, my dear, I fear this evening I must request we sit down for a moment."

"Of course. This bench is free and has a lovely view of the gardens or would you prefer the river view?" Christine holds more tightly to Erik's arm as she directs them to one of the wooden benches that line the path along the Tuilieries Gardens and the Seine.

"The Gardens are fine, so much color and life," Erik says, holding onto the back of the bench as he settles himself, patting the seat next to him for Christine to sit down.

"Spring is indeed the loveliest time of the year – perfect weather, the flowers in bloom – it is not surprising that so many are taking their evening walks. All the couples, so much in love."

"We began our life together in the spring – not exactly like these youngsters, I imagine. I was already in my middle years when you insisted we take our first walk in daylight."

Christine removes her bonnet, tucking a curl of greying chestnut hair behind her ear. Resting her head on Erik's shoulder, she says, "It took you a long time to accept the fact that people were not always looking at you."

"It was a humbling moment, I must admit," he chuckles, "but incredibly freeing." Despite that sense of freedom he continues to wear his soft felt hat tipped over the mask covering the right half of his face. The one major difference in his disguise being a wig of pure white hair instead of the black he favored in days past.

Their conversation and view are disturbed by the appearance of a handsome man of middle years stopping directly in front of them.

"Monsieur," Erik says.

"Little Lotte!"

"Raoul?" Christine responds with a smile. "Oh, Raoul – it is you."

"Vicomte?" Erik growls. "We thought you had left France in disgrace after that gambling incident in Monte Carlo."

"Erik," Christine scolds. "That was twenty years ago. You are likely the only one to remember that business."

"Too short a time, if you ask me."

"Always the charming gentlemen, M. Saint-Rien."

"Only to those who hold my fondest regard."

With an elbow to her husband's ribs, Christine asks, "Are you living in Paris again?"

"As a matter of fact, I just rented a flat on the Rue de Rivoli."

"Do tell. There is no room for you at the mansion?" Erik asks, stopping to tap a long finger on his lips. "Or has Phillippe maintained the good sense he discovered when it came to your shenanigans?"

Christine rolls her eyes. "Where about? We, too, have an apartment not far from here."

"This was my choice, for your information." Raoul turns slightly pointing in the direction of the Rue. "You can see it from here."

"That assumes we care to know."

"It appears your apartment is quite close to our own." Christine presses on.

"Indeed? May I sit?"

"Ye..."

"No," Erik replies. "We were actually planning to continue our walk when you so rudely blocked our view."

"It has been twenty-five years, Erik," Christine scolds. "Can we not let bygones be bygones?"

"You did win the fair lady, as it turned out," Raoul says with a slight bow to Christine, directing his conversation to her. "Much to my chagrin and great disappointment – you are as lovely as ever."

"Oh, Raoul."

"Flirting with my wife is not likely to endear you to me, Vicomte."

"And what, may I ask, will you do to stop me – here in the open air – no nooses in sight."

"This is ridiculous," Christine says. "Neither of you is of an age to be challenging one another to yet another altercation – particularly over me."

"I am still in my prime," Raoul boasts. "However, I do see that the infamous Opera Ghost is in his dotage, likely suffering from a mundane affliction such as arthritis. I would not wish to take unfair advantage."

"Unfair advantage, you prissy fop," Erik says, rising to his feet.

"Erik, please, do not make a scene."

"Indeed, Erik, do not make a scene. I would hate to see such an old man fall down while attempting to take a swipe at another so much his physical superior."

"No swipes, Vicomte," Erik says, grabbing Raoul's throat. "My body may have aged, but my hands are youthful as ever. All that piano playing, you know."

Raoul's blue eyes begin to bulge and he coughs in response to the pressure on his neck.

"Erik let him go." Christine tugs at Erik's arm. "We are creating a scene."

Pushing Raoul aside as he releases his hold, Erik's amber eyes glare at him. "May we now bid you good-day, Vicomte? I am aging, but I am not dead," he says, dusting off his hands, before taking Christine's arm. "My wife and I were enjoying the spring evening, recalling our first walk in this park as a matter of fact – when she consented to marry me. We should like to continue our reverie."

"I did not mean to insult you."

"But you did, Raoul," Christine sighs, shaking her head. "Some things do not change. We wish you well in your new home," she says, placing her hand on Erik's, guiding him away from the Vicomte who stands rubbing his throat as he watches them leave.q

"I am sorry, he still infuriates me," Erik says, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "He is still quite handsome and quite dashing, I will give him that. I was not completely certain I would be able to throttle him."

"You think his relative youth, and it is indeed relative, would make some difference to our lives?"

"I am not a young man, Christine, and was never a handsome one – which is a massive understatement."

"After everything we have been through, you still do not think that I love you?"

"Let us just say, I will always find the idea miraculous and bless whatever gods there might be that you feel it to be so."

"Erik, I love you. That is a fact and I am so proud you were still willing to fight for me."

"Truly – you were proud, just now. I believed you were prepared to throttle me over my behavior to the boy."

"For a moment, however, it is not every day a woman of my age inspires a competition for her affections," she laughs.

"My dear, you would inspire any man, any day to fight for your love."

"Well, you have fought and won – then and now."

Erik bends down to kiss her lightly on the lips. "Strangely, I feel much like these youngsters at the moment."

"That, my husband is love."

"So it is. So it is."


	25. A Birthday Gift

A Birthday Gift

The house was silent, a full moon casting soft light through the drapes where they were not entirely closed.

Erik paused in the doorway, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the woman lying on the four-poster bed. A slight hitch in breathing and a rustle of bedclothes startled him, causing him to draw back to wait a while longer.

The day had begun with a sense of happiness he could not remember feeling before. It was his birthday and he felt something special was going to happen. There was no reason to believe this day would be different from any other. The anniversary of his father's passing and funeral always took precedence over any sort of celebration of his birth.

Worse than the accident causing the death, was the appearance of the son, who, had he at least looked normal, might have assuaged the suffering of his mother. Her tragedy became two-fold, however, and her grieving only increased as the years went by.

Nevertheless, Erik was certain today would be different. A new doctor was coming to visit. Someone Madeleine had met in the village. Would he be able to perform some sort of miracle to heal his appearance – was that the reason for the visit?

Just once, he wished to see a look of tolerance, if not love, on her beautiful face.

As was the case when most visitors came to the call – he was relegated to his room. Today, however, he stole into the hallway, hiding in the cupboard beneath the stairway. The doors to the drawing room were open, so he was able to hear everything clearly – even without the help his acute hearing.

"Do you think this will solve the problem?"

"It will solve your problem – is that not what we have been discussing?"

"But he is brilliant – a gifted musician. His sketches are superior to those Charles created for his buildings."

"None of that changes the reality of his face."

"He is a child. I just do not know."

"You will never be free so long as he is here."

"I cannot make such a decision – not now."

There had been moments in his life up until now, when the pain of her rejection was almost unbearable – but he never doubted she would keep him with her – whatever the obstacles and distance she placed between them.

This house was a prison as it was. How could she cast him away for a sallow-faced dandy, who could never come close to the elegance and refined looks of his father? Still, this appeared to be the case.

The tears he felt forming in his eyes were quickly rubbed away with the cloth of his mask. This was not the time for emotion. Moving swiftly and quietly, he made his way back upstairs to his room. There would be no birthday celebration. There would be no special gift.

The breathing steadied again.

Treading softly across the Aubusson rug, he stood for a moment observing his mother's sleeping face framed in auburn waves. Fascinated as always by her beauty – the porcelain complexion with just the faintest blush on her cheeks and a natural pink tone to her lips – he could spend hours simply looking at her.

Holding his breath, he stood on tiptoe, holding onto one of the posts to brace him. Leaning over, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. Pulling back quickly, lest he waken her.

"Good-bye, Mother," he said, gazing just a while longer before turning away. "My birthday gift to you."


	26. Do You Believe in Love?

Christine hums softly as she cleans the open cuts on the "good" side of his face.

Erik elicits a hissing sound, tears flowing from both eyes at the smell of the alcohol as well as the sting.

"Do you have needle and thread?"

"Why?"

"To suture this up – the cut is quite deep and a plaster will not hold."

"I can do this later."

"Why? I can do it now."

Struggling to his feet, grasping the back of the settee for balance nearly losing his footing.

"Let me – tell me where."

Raising his hand to halt her, he crosses the room to a hutch to retrieve a black wooden sewing box and carries it back to her.

"When did you build this house?"

"During the renovation of the auditorium," he says. "I somehow felt the day would come when my other lodgings would be discovered."

"I am glad you were not…"

"Killed?"

"Yes." With careful moves, she stitches up the wound. "You will likely have a small scar."

Erik's laugh is harsh. "I am certain it will cause enormous alarm to those who see it."

"I am sorry."

"No, do not be. You are a healer – perhaps the first who is willing to heal a wound, rather than create one."

"Did one of the mob do this?"

"No." Another laugh to match the irony in his voice. "I fell over one of my own traps hitting my head on the wall, bruising my knuckles and twisting my back to boot."

"They did not catch you?"

"No," he says, taking the needle from her hand and replacing it in the box. "If they had, it is likely you would be wrapping me in a funeral shroud. The garment from Don Juan Triumphant would have suited the purpose quite nicely."

"This is not funny."

"One must find humor where one can, dear girl." Allowing himself to rest, the medical care suspended for the moment, he leans back on the red velvet sofa and asks, "What brought you back? You were free to go."

"Love me when I least deserve it, because that is when I really need it."

"What is that?"

"A Swedish proverb my mother taught me," Christine answers.

"Do you believe in love?"

"I am here."


	27. Tete a Tete

Tete a Tete

Nadir downs the dregs of coffee from one of the delicate china cups from her collection Adele insists on using for their meals. He much prefers the crockery mugs at his own apartment, partly because he is always fearful that he will break a piece of her precious dinnerware – mainly because at home he would not have to drink three cups to satisfy his taste for the bitter brew. Nevertheless, small price to pay for this welcome development in his life.

"Where are the girls?" he asks. "It's quiet as a tomb in here."

"I sent them to get some fruit. I could not bear the idea of one more breakfast of just bread and eggs and cheese – with the opening so near, I have not had time to shop," Adele answers as she brushes her hair, only a few silver streaks at her temples highlighting the black mane.

"Here, allow me," Nadir motions her over, standing to give her his chair.

Handing him the boar-bristle brush and placing a wide-toothed comb on the table, she sits down, presenting herself for his ministrations.

"It is sad that you choose to hide this beauty from the world," he says, drawing through her tresses with long strokes, smoothing the waves and curling the ends over his fingertips. "You should simply tie it back with red ribbons to match your petticoat and those new slippers."

"I have passed the age when anyone notices anything about how I look," she retorts.

"You mock me and my knowledge of what is lovely and what is not?"

"Not at all," she smiles, "I appreciate your good taste. I am merely aware that most men, people, actually, fail to see a woman after she reaches a certain age. Even our Erik."

"Ah, so you did have an attraction for him?"

"Perhaps, at first," she admits, "but he was so broken, the most he would accept was friendship and even that pushed his boundaries." She turns in her chair to face him. "You, of all people, should know that."

"True, enough," Nadir admits as he puts down the brush to pick up the comb and sections her hair to create the plaits she favors. "I also do not believe that his attraction to Christine has anything to do with age, unless you consider her to be the elder," he chortles. "Where are your pins and combs?"

A handful of hair accessories are retrieved from a pocket in her dressing gown and placed on the table.

They retire to their own thoughts as Nadir completes her coiffure. "I do like this style much better," he says, standing back to look at his creation. "A bit of softness around the face, not so severe, but still what you seem to prefer."

"I will advise you when I can see it for myself," she snorts.


	28. Ouija, Walpurgis and Paganini

Ouija, Walpurgis and Paganini

"Whatever are you two doing?" Christine asks as she closes the front door behind her, laying her purse on the small table in the entry before removing her bonnet and hanging it on the coat rack. "I delayed returning from rehearsal to allow you privacy for your violin practice."

"Papa Y is showing me how to use a Ouija Board." Gustave says from his seat at the carved wood gaming table next to the French windows that look out at the beach.

"Gustave, you know how I feel about fortune telling."

"You love fortune telling. You told me so. You said the best part of the fairs was having your palm read or the leaves in your teacup explained. How the witch told you about a tall, dark stranger you would meet when you grew up who would carry you away to another world."

"A fortune teller told you that?" Erik asks, leaning back in his chair across from the boy, unable to restrain a chuckle.

"Something like that." A flush rises on her cheeks. "I was a child."

"I_ am_ a child."

With uncommon restraint, Erik manages to maintain his silence – watching with a faint smile on his malformed lips, a sparkle in the amber eyes, the pair who could have been siblings – Gustave so mature looking even though just entering puberty and Christine, the essence of youth – spar.

To his credit, the boy was clever without being rude. His retorts more often bringing a laugh to his mother's lips than a scold.

"Yes, well, I suppose then…"

"Papa said I could set up a booth for the Walpurgis Night celebration."

"Is it Walpurgis or Valborg that we should use for the advertising?"

"You told him he could read Ouija with strangers – are you not afraid?"

"It is game, Christine, not real – at the moment, I am only showing him how to hold the planchette."

"And?"

"And?"

"Were you considering consulting me – about my feelings – not just about him using the Board, but having a booth?"

"Is now all right? We had only just begun speaking of it ourselves to one another." Erik looks to Gustave for confirmation of this potential lie, his visible eyebrow quirked, as much innocence that he could muster on his face.

"Just now," Gustave concurs, side-eyeing Erik.

"Hmmmm."

"So which is it: Walpurgis or Valborg?"

"Valborg is the Swedish name, but others might be more familiar with Walpurgis from Faust, especially since we are performing _Oui, c'est toi que j'aime_ – I do wish you were singing with me – it would be perfect." Joining her men at the table, she kisses Gustave on the cheek, before moving to Erik's side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You do not like the tenor?"

"He is not you."

"Some might find that to be a good thing," he replies.

"Pappa always loved the Walpurgis celebration mainly because of the fine weather, but it brought the community together – he particularly loved playing for our village."

"The best way to introduce finer music is to a crowd," he says. "This event is for our neighbors – in addition to the music, they will see ghosts, gremlins and hobgoblins. The house of mirrors will be decorated like a haunted house. The beach will hold a number of bonfires and booths will be set up for trick or treating. Gustave's entertainment will be the Ouija."

"Is that considered a trick or treat?'

"Both or neither."

"Maman, sit down, let us see if there are any ghosts here this house," Gustave says, giggling – raising his arms in the air, wiggling his hands at her. "Woooooo."

With some reluctance, Christine sits down at the table. "Do you think people will like our idea?"

"Since it is too cold for a Halloween celebration here in October, the idea of Walpurgis in April will be an attraction no one else has to open their season. I am grateful to be of the acquaintance of a Swede who told me about this wonderful holiday."

"Let us try the Ouija. Please."

Resigned, Christine adds her fingertips to the indicator and takes a deep breath.

"You first, Gustave." Erik says.

"Are there any ghosts living here at Phantasma?"

To their surprise the planchette slides swiftly to YES.

"Any here in our flat?" Erik challenges.

YES.

Christine pulls her fingers away as if burned. "You are controlling that thing, I can tell."

"No, honestly I am not."

"I thought you constructed this building."

"I did."

"Then how could there be ghosts?"

"Maybe we carry ghosts around with us – some say the dead will appear if asked."

"This is making me very nervous. Valborg is about keeping the ghosts and demons away, not encouraging them."

"Maman, it is just a game. There are no ghosts."

"I thought you liked ghosts – at least you liked the Opera Ghost," Erik laughs. "The Oiuja has a sense of humor."

"Harrumph. Very funny." Christine rises from the table. "Enough of this fortune telling, I believe it is time for your violin lesson, young man. I would much rather you play than engage with the board."

"That would be completely in keeping with the_ spirit_ of the holiday," Erik smirks. "Some believed Paganini's skill with the violin was because he sold his soul to the devil. I sometimes wondered if my musical skills were born of some arrangement my mother made with her personal Mephistopheles."

"Erik!"

"A jest, my dear – however, it does give me an idea," Erik rises from the table to retrieve his and Gustave's violins.

"What might that be?"

"Gustave and I will costume ourselves and play for the crowd – that will be our treat."

"Costume yourselves?"

"As DEVILS!" Gustave exclaims. "Yes. That would be more fun than Ouija."

"You are both Angels."

"Ma…man, it is for fun – it will be fun."

"Then we must practice," Erik says, handing Gustave his violin.

As was her habit when Erik was giving violin lessons to Gustave, she retires to their bedroom, not wishing to make him feel awkward practicing in front of an audience – even if she was his mother. This was a new instrument and, although naturally talented, the violin was testing his mettle.

He is indeed a prodigy. Even without the scarring, she knew from his cry he was Erik's son. More than just a beautiful voice, there was the persuasive quality mimicking Erik's – the ability to hypnotize with a few notes or phrases. That cannot be denied.

While she was always able to differentiate his playing from Erik's when they played a duet or Erik encouraged him to play along in unison – when he played alone, his own gift was apparent.

What was it Erik had commented? "The student will always surpass the teacher – if the teacher has done his job."

"How so?"

"If one gives all one has to the pupil, when the pupil adds his own gift – you can have nothing less."

_La Campanella_…she did not realize how skilled Gustave has become. Could he? No – do not even entertain the thought. Just a talented student with a brilliant teacher. Music drives all of us – there is no such thing as possession or devilish deals.

This was one of Pappa's favorite pieces – the energy and vigor. Both Erik and Gustave inject their souls into their playing. Is that another violin she hears? A third voice?"

It must be her imagination – this has been such a strange evening. Closing her eyes, she lets her mind drift, allowing the music to embrace her.

"Are you here, Pappa?" she whispers. "Are you our resident ghost? I should not mind the idea of possession or haunting if it means you are here."

The piece crescendos, then ends with Erik's and Gustave's laughter.

Christine smiles at the photograph of Gustave Daae sitting on her dressing table. "I certainly would not mind at all."


	29. A Soprano, A Spider & A Glass of Merlot

A Soprano, A Spider and A Glass of Merlot

"Ahhhhh!" Christine emits a single, perfectly executed note.

Erik snaps his hand back releasing the wine glass as it shatters into what appear to be a thousand pieces, spraying his smoking jacket with his best Merlot – the shards of crystal and remaining wine splatter the sage and peach Aubusson carpet – and threaten Christine's lavender dressing gown.

Frozen – with the exception of a wagging finger pointing at his shoulder – she gasps for air, unable to speak.

"What is wrong? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Not the Opera Ghost, I hope. If memory serves, your reaction at that time was quite similar," he says, taking her arm, guiding her away from the broken glass.

"V…v…very f…f…funny." With a strong jerk, she pulls her arm away and stumbles backward, nearly tripping on the train of her gown.

"Seriously, though, please do not tell me that after all this time, my face has once again caused you to become apoplectic – I simply could not bear it."

"Y…y…your shoulder…a…a…spider. On your shoulder."

Erik casually glances down – sure enough, an innocuous Daddy Long Legs is nestled in the cut velvet. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, with a few gentle pokes of his forefinger, he encourages the arachnid into the tube he created. "Must you be so dramatic every time you see a spider?"

"I am not dramatic, it was a very big spider."

"Actually the body was quite small – the legs are long, so I suppose you could call it _big._" Satisfied the creature is safely enfolded in the fabric, he disposes of it on the balcony.

"Do not mock me," she says, folding her arms, following him to the French doors, glancing out to ensure the offender is indeed gone.

"Merely pointing out realities, my dear. In general, as a species, they are very good insect catchers and are quite harmless – at least most of them. While Pholcidae are venomous, they do not have the facility to inject the poison into a human. In any event, it is difficult to imagine the amount of poison it might inject could do much harm."

"How am I to know which ones to be frightened of?"

"Ask before screaming, particularly when I am holding a glass of wine."

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry," she says, noting the stains on both his jacket and shirt, her own handkerchief is put to use wiping his jacket. "I certainly had no intention of this happening."

"I read that the human voice could make a glass explode – physics teaches that probability. Seeing it happen first hand is quite amazing when all is said and done."

A smug grin crosses her face. "That was quite something, was it not?"

"It was indeed, however, not something I should like to experience very often," he chuckles, "our collection of crystal would soon be decimated by your magnificent E."

"Flatterer."

"I speak only the truth," he says, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "Another truth is I must tend to this jacket and the rug, then, perhaps we can go back to where we were before that spider decided to terrorize you."

"It was enormous."

Erik rolls his eyes.

"Well, I thought it was."

"Yes, dear."

"It was."

"Hush."

"Was…

Taking her chin in his hand, he kisses her pouting lips.

"Mmm."

"Mm-hmm."


	30. Dinner With Phillippe

Dinner with Phillippe

The vibrancy of the cabaret bled into the street – jocular couples, loud music and a heightened gaiety that found Giselle both charmed and appalled. Beautiful, if vaguely wanton women, hung on the arms of men many years their senior, who kissed their faces or fondled them outright sans embarrassment.

She was no stranger to the behavior of men and women in mating mode – at most every inn she ever stayed saw the exchanges of lust for money. This, however, was on a much grander scale and cushioned in wealth, making the debauchery less offensive in a strange way.

The maître d greeted Phillippe with a jovial "Bonjour, M. le Comte de Chagny – your usual booth?" His tailcoat unable to meet in front thanks to his portly frame.

Giselle was conscious of his surveillance of her – side-eying Phillippe and twisting the waxed ends of his handlebar mustache. "Supper or just appetizers?"

Phillippe turned to Giselle. "Are you quite hungry – they offer a delightful sole?"

She nodded numbly. "That sounds lovely."

"Bien. The usual wine?"

"No – I think tonight a nice champagne – a treat for the mademoiselle."

"I shall bring you our very best." Making a slight bow, he disappeared into the throng, allowing Phillippe to seat Giselle himself.

The sommelier brought a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket he set on the table. Removing the wine wrapped in a white towel, he popped the cork, startling Giselle. "Oh."

Phillippe held up his tulip glass accepting half a glass to taste, once finished, he nodded. His glass was refilled and another tulip glass prepared for Giselle. "Thank you," he said to the man. To Giselle, "Please enjoy your wine –it is quite nice."

Taking a sip, she giggled. "Champagne two nights in a row – I feel spoiled. I do like the bubbles tickling my nose, though. They are quite fun."

"So you are a country girl?" Phillippe asked, leaning across the table to speak with her. Their booth, though set away from the loudest part of the cabaret, is still surrounded by the music and chatter from the people crowding the darkened room.

"Yes – as I told you, my father was a carpenter and he taught me his craft. We were a family of women and he was pleased that I enjoyed working with my hands. I danced – that was my mother's wish – she loved the ballet. I was grateful to be able to find continued work after my accident at the Opera House."

"I should have liked to see you dance," he said, lifting up his glass in a toast. "To lady carpenters."

Giselle lowered her eyes. "Thank you."

"Are there any other wonderful secrets you might like to share?"

"Well…Papa taught me fisticuffs."

He sat back against the leather padding of the booth. "Indeed? And have you engaged in any conflicts – either for sport or out of need."

His manner was so relaxed and friendly – it was difficult to believe that he was of noble birth – but then she could not imagine him to be a commoner. His finely chiseled face, the Grecian nose and cleft chin all spoke of a privileged heritage. In some ways, he reminded her of M. Erik – their body structure, the way they moved, a quiet elegance – catlike – Comte Phillippe in his grey and M. Erik in his black.

"Some of the farm boys would tease me when I would practice dancing in the workshop. One of them got a bit too close – trying to touch me. I punched him in the jaw. When he fell to the ground, all his friends scattered leaving him at my mercy. It was tres jolie."

Phillippe threw back his head and laughed loudly enough to draw the attention of a couple dancing close to their table. "Did you trounce him further?"

"No, I trusted he learned his lesson – why waste my energy – the point was made?"

"You are fascinating, Giselle, do you know that?"

"I know that I am different. I am not certain that I am fascinating."

"Oh, you are. Trust me when I say you are." His grey eyes half-closed, the barest smile on his thin lips.

"You remind me of M. Erik in many ways."

"Indeed? I do not sing, nor am I a musician or detective – and certainly not a phantom. I am nothing so romantic."

"He appreciates oddities – and speaks his mind."

"You admire him."

"I do –he and Mme. Christine have been good to me." She cleared her throat. "You look like him – at least your height and the way you handle yourself. I often wonder what he looks like under the mask."

"Raoul says his face is quite horrible. That said, a gorgeous young woman loves him and, more significantly, chose him over my beautiful brother, so it cannot be so terrible, non?" He took another sip of his wine. "I like that you have been thinking about me."

The waiter arrived with their meal and Giselle was grateful for the interruption. The sole was cooked to perfection, at least as far as she knew, grilled frisee with squash and figs as a side dish and a fresh, hard-crusted bread with garlic olive oil for dipping took much of their attention – their eyes, however, danced as they ate their meal.


End file.
